Mills & Boon Christmas Delights Collection. Rebecca Winters

the look on her face was pretty priceless when we split up and she realised that nothing to do with the property is in my name. It’s all in Grandad’s. So she couldn’t touch it.’

      ‘I imagine she was a little put out.’

      The lips quirked again. ‘You could say that.’

      ‘Grandad just smiled when I told him. He told me I’d worked hard in helping him on this house in holidays and stuff, so it would have been wrong to have to split it with someone who didn’t love it like I did.’

      ‘He didn’t trust her.’

      ‘No. I don’t think he did. She wasn’t exactly into family the same way I am. It was always a bone of contention between us.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      Michael flashed me a look. ‘Thanks. All in the past now though.’

      ‘So you helped work on this place?’ I said, glancing around and sensing that moving the subject on might be for the best. ‘That’s great! I love Georgian architecture. They really had some wonderful ideas about light and space.’

      ‘They certainly did. All us kids did bits on various houses when we could. Helping out, you know. But I guess I always felt a connection to this one. It was in a right state but when I saw it in the auction listings, I persuaded Grandad to get it anyway. It was a family decision in the end, as a lot of things are in my family – something you’ve probably already worked out.’

      I smiled at him. ‘Their support must have been very greatly appreciated.’

      ‘Definitely. Quite literally in one instance when I walked into an upper room one day and nearly ended up in the kitchen.’

      ‘Oh my goodness! Were you all right?’ I leant forward, fascinated at hearing the history of the house.

      ‘Yeah. My brother managed to grab my arm just as the joist gave way.’

      ‘That must have been frightening for you both.’

      He gave a quick eyebrow raise. ‘More so for me. He was in no great hurry to pull me up and instead made me apologise for every mean thing I’d ever said or done to him.’

      ‘Really? I imagine you were dangling there for quite some time then.’

      He gave a little outward huff of air from his nose, a concession of amusement. ‘Touché.’

      ***

      Michael had been doing his best to help, determined not to give in but in the end I managed to persuade him to sit quietly and just close his eyes for ten minutes. A short while later, his voice cut into my concentration, making me jump.

      ‘I really hate those curtains.’

      ‘Oh my…’ I gasped, my hand on my chest. ‘You made me jump. I thought you were asleep.’

      ‘No. You’d know if I was asleep. Snore like a train, apparently.’

      I knew it wasn’t true, but played along. ‘Attractive.’

      His lips hinted at a smile.

      I glanced around at the curtains he was focused on. ‘What don’t you like about them?’

      If I was honest, they weren’t exactly to my taste either but it was obvious to anyone that they were expensive and my next move would depend on what Michael said.

      ‘I don’t think they suit the room. One of the things I love about this house is the sense of space, the proportions of it. Ideally I want that feel in the rooms too. It’s my own fault though. I said I’d go and look at some with my wife, but kept putting it off when other things came up. She got fed up with waiting in the end and had these made. Cost a bloody fortune and I can’t stand them.’

      ‘So what would you prefer?’

      ‘Something lighter in colour. Something that…I don’t know…seems less funereal.’

      ‘Then you should get rid of them.’

      His sleepy eyes widened. ‘I can’t! The amount they cost, I should be using them for the next thirty years at least!’

      ‘Michael,’ I said, sitting back and scooting my legs out to the side a little as I started getting pins and needles. ‘Everything we’re doing here is about making your life better, making your home somewhere you enjoy being, whatever room you’re in. Making you happier. This room is one of the main living spaces, so I hope you’ll be using it more once we’re finished, because it really is quite lovely. But if the first thing you’re going to think every time you come in here is how much you hate those curtains, then they have to go. It’s as simple as that. There are places that you can take designer curtains like these and they’ll sell them on so you get some money back – a bit like second-hand designer clothes agencies – so it wouldn’t be a total loss.’

      He frowned. ‘I’m not…I hope you don’t think I’m being tight, or anything, when I say that.’

      ‘Not at all. They were expensive and getting rid of them seems wasteful to you.’

      ‘It does.’

      ‘I’ve been doing this a long time. Don’t worry. And I don’t think you’re being a Scrooge, don’t worry about it. Even if I did, that’s your prerogative. It doesn’t matter what I think.’

      ‘It matters to me.’

      I looked up, surprised.

      With perfect timing, Michael’s phone began to ring.

      ‘Hi sis,’ he answered.

      I finished off arranging the photo frames he’d wanted to keep out on a shelf on the dresser, having given it a good clean first. Although I’d told Michael in our first, rather heated discussion that I wasn’t a cleaner, that wasn’t entirely true. There was no point putting things back if the place they were going back to was dusty or dirty so generally the houses I helped organise also got a damn good clean. Having said that, I wasn’t about to clean anyone’s toilet but my own. I often went above and beyond, but I had limits.

      I tuned out of Michael’s phone call and instead concentrated on the pictures I was putting on the shelf. There had been a couple of him with his wife that had obviously survived an initial onslaught of being got rid of and he had pulled those out of the frames and put them in a pile. Most of the ones left were of family. It was clear from spending time here just how important family was to this man. I turned my attention back to the photos – I recognised Janey’s husband in one with Michael, their arms round each other’s shoulders, both caked with mud and holding aloft some sort of trophy. There were a couple of rugby team ones, and another of him sat, his shirt open and catching the breeze as his legs dangled over the edge of a boat. My eyes kept drifting back to this one. It was tricky to ignore the fact that under the shapeless, worn clothes Michael now seemed to live in, there was an extremely hot body. It was kind of a shame he covered it up most of the time. Running my gaze over the rest of the photos, it was obvious that, at one point, he’d taken more pride in his appearance. Not in a vain way, just that he’d perhaps taken a little more care and interest in it -his hair was shorter, his clothes tidier, his face more inclined to smile.

      I’d been honest before when I’d said I didn’t care what he wore. But I did want him to care a little more about what he wore because I knew from years of experience that feeling good in your clothes could make a real difference to one’s mindset.

      ‘Who’s the dog?’ I asked, as I sensed Michael’s presence approaching.

      Reaching my side, he picked up one of the photos which featured him with a Heinz 57 type dog.

      ‘Monty.’

      ‘Whose is he?’

      Mikey took a breath and shifted his weight, the painkillers apparently beginning to wear off.

      ‘He was mine. Daft dog. Passed away.’

      ‘Oh